


With Your Feet in the Air

by CoffeeWithConsequences



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dirty Talk, Drawing, F/F, Foot Fetish, Shoes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 10:46:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15313803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/pseuds/CoffeeWithConsequences
Summary: AU. Mal teaches Ariadne how to draw feet, and so much more.





	With Your Feet in the Air

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the fourth square of my Inception Bingo card, "foot/shoe fetish."

“Dammit!” Ariadne glared at her easel. Six weeks into figure drawing class, and she still wasn’t happy with what she sketched. She tore off the page in frustration and started again. Calm, she told herself sternly. She looked closely at the model. He was a biggish guy, well-built and very handsome, with big lips and tattoos. Not her taste, but good for drawing. She took a deep breath and began with his shoulders.

Ariadne wasn’t sure how much longer she worked before she felt her instructor behind her, looking over her shoulder. She was, once again, working on the legs and feet--the worst part of all of her drawings. She wished she’d stayed with the upper body while she was being watched. Mal made her uncomfortable enough already.

Mal was completely different than any of Ariadne’s previous art teachers. Doubling in fine arts and architecture meant Ari took a fair number of studio classes, and they tended to be taught by gray-haired women with turquoise jewelry (pottery), genderfluid folks in jeans and flannels (welding), or severe men with tiny mustaches (photography). Mal looked more like a model than an art teacher. She was young--maybe in her mid-30s--and always perfectly dressed. She wore pencil skirts, sweater sets, pearls, red lipstick. She wore high heels every day and smelled like expensive perfume, even over the smell of charcoal and paper that clouded the room. She spoke in liltingly accented English, and often switched to French mid-sentence. When she did, she never translated for herself, assuming her students could either figure it out or look it up. She dealt out rare praise and frequent criticism. Most of the students didn’t like her. Ariadne adored her.

“Your feet are all wrong,” Mal said, looking over Ariadne’s sketch. “There is no sex in them.”

Ariadne swallowed and blushed. “No sex?” she asked.

Mal nodded. Ariadne could smell her perfume. Her body was close and warm. “The lines of his body are all moving, sexual,” she gestured at Ariadne’s easel, where she’d outlined the model’s torso, his neck and shoulders, the tops of his thighs. “You see? But here,” she gestured down at the feet Ariadne was adding to the bottom of the drawing, “no movement. Just,” she moved her hand in a flitting motion, looking for a word. “Flat. Fat. Like a cartoon.”

Ariadne considered. They did sort of look like Flintstone feet. “I can’t seem to make them move,” she said.

Mal wrinkled her little nose, then called to the model in French. He understood, moving slightly, propping one foot up so the class could better see it. “Look at his arch, at how it is so open, so tender,” Mal instructed. “Think of running your thumb along it, the softer skin there. Then try again.”

After Mal walked away, Ariadne scrubbed out her Flintstone feet and began again. Her next attempt was no better. When Mal returned, she tried to cover the feet with her hand. Mal laughed and pried her fingers away. Ariadne felt a bolt go through her at the touch. Mal hadn’t ever touched her before. “Still bad,” Mal agreed. “Maybe you need to be closer.” She glanced at the clock. “No time for that today.”

As Ariadne was gathering her supplies, Mal approached her again. She held out a heavy cream card. The front had her name, a phone number, and “Artist-in-Residence.” On the back, in slanted red writing, was an address.

“You will come to my studio,” Mal ordered. “We will work on your feet.”

Ariadne tried to hide her shock. A private lesson? “When?” she stuttered.

“Tonight. 8 o’clock.” Mal nodded firmly, then turned and walked away before Ariadne could respond.

The building was older, but very nice, in a posh neighborhood. It wasn’t somewhere Ari had been before, and it took two buses and a bit of a walk to find it. Still, she arrived on time, taking a deep breath before pushing the buzzer. When nobody answered, she pushed again, her heart rate beginning to accelerate. Did she have the wrong building? The wrong time? Finally, an irritated voice crackled through the intercom. “Yes?”

“Um, Mal? It’s Ariadne? You said to come over?” Ari hated how unsure she sounded.

“Oh. You are early.” Mal made it clear this was not acceptable behavior.

“I’m...right on time?” Ariadne glanced at her watch. It was precisely 8:00.

“Yes. Early. Come up.” Then the speaker went silent.

Ariadne felt a bit of dread as she waited in the ancient elevator. Mal sounded as if she regretted her offer of assistance. Still, Ari wasn’t going to shy away from free help, so she squared her shoulders and proceeded.

Mal opened the door to a messy, cluttered studio. It was full of light, half-finished drawings and paintings. It smelled like Mal’s perfume, and like gesso, and a little bit like hashish. Mal was still wearing what she’d worn to class, but had a glass of red wine in her hand. Whatever irritation she had about Ariadne being on time seemed to have evaporated while Ari was in the elevator, because she ushered her in with a smile, then pushed a glass of wine into her hands.

“Now, we will talk about feet,” Mal said, pushing aside a few sketchbooks so Ariadne could sit with her on the small sofa. “Are you afraid of them, _chérie_?”

Ariadne was puzzled. “Afraid? Of feet?”

Mal shrugged. “People fear all sorts of things.”

Ariadne smiled. “I am not afraid of feet. I don’t have...any feelings toward them.”

Mal raised a delicate eyebrow. “Well, that is your problem, then,” she said, voice as decisive as always. She hummed a bit, then asked, “you have made love, yes?”

Ariadne blushed, but forced herself to answer. “Yes. Of course.”

Mal nodded. “You draw the body like you have made love, like you have seen a lover arch and bend. But you do not draw the feet this way.” She scowled at Ariadne in a way that made her want to shrink back, but there was nowhere to go. “You have not made love to the feet.”

Ari’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean, like...a fetish?”

Mal snorted. “Americans think everything is a fetish.” She looked thoughtful again. “You will learn.” She took the wine glass from Ariadne’s hand. “Go to the easel,” she instructed, jerking her chin toward the closest easel.

Ari found a fresh sheet of paper and a charcoal waiting. As she settled herself behind the easel, Mal stretched out on the little couch, propping her high-heeled feet on the arm. “Look at my feet,” she instructed, moving them around a bit, then sliding one shoe off and letting it hit the floor. “Watch how they move.” She lifted the bare foot a bit higher and arched it. “Think of touching me here, of running your fingers over my skin.”

Ariadne tried hard to concentrate, awkwardly picking up the charcoal.

“Do not draw yet,” Mal ordered. “Only look.”

Ariadne stared quietly at Mal’s feet. The closet one was bare, small and pale, with short, nearly stubby toes. The skin was all smooth, with no signs of calluses. The toenails were short and neatly clipped, unpainted. Mal’s arch was high, creating a shadow. The other foot was still wrapped in its strappy heel, the bottom hidden against the shoe, the top bisected with thin leather straps. They were, Ariadne thought, exceptionally lovely feet. She’d not been lying when she told Mal she had no particular feelings toward feet, but she was fast developing some rather embarrassing feelings toward Mal’s.

Ariadne had no idea how long she’d been looking at Mal’s feet when her voice interrupted. “Alright. Pick up your charcoal.” She sounded amused.

Ariadne did as she was told, her eyes moving back and forth now, between the paper and Mal’s reclining form.

“Ignore the rest of my body,” Mal instructed. “Look only at my feet.” She paused, watching Ariadne make a few tentative swipes at the paper. “You are  _lesbienne,_  no?”

Ariadne swallowed hard before answering. The question hadn’t been expected. “Uh, yes.”

Mal nodded. “For you, I think, it is better to draw women. For now.”

Ariadne’s cheeks were burning. “I thought I was doing OK in class, besides the feet.” She wasn’t sure why she said it.

Mal didn’t answer right away. Instead, she propped her bare foot on top of the one still in the shoe. “Think of my body,” she instructed. “Of touching it, kissing it. As you draw, think of my shoe, holding you down. Think of unbuckling it, of uncovering my skin.”

Ariadne was still and silent. As Mal spoke, Ariadne’s mind filled with exactly the images Mal described. The pretty little feet propped only a few yards away were pressing against Ariadne’s chest, her stomach, forcing her to the floor. Then the scene shifted, and it was her in control, pulling Mal’s feet into her lap, removing her strappy shoes.

“Draw,” Mal ordered. “Draw what you see in your mind. Think of my toes against your thighs, of my foot pushing your legs apart.”

Ariadne’s breath sounded loud in her own ears as she pulled the charcoal across the page. Her drawing was messy, much less precise than what she did in class. Her hand was shaking. She tried to slow herself down.

“No,” Mal interrupted. “Don’t think about your drawing. Don’t control it. Think only of me, of my flesh. Think of being here, on this chaise with me. Think of drawing my heel against your  _chatte._  Of rubbing against it.”

Ariadne knew she was flushed and panting, but she kept drawing, her eyes skipping back and forth between the paper and Mal. Mal had stretched out further on the sofa, her feet still propped against the arm. She was watching Ariadne with a half-smile. “Drawing is just sex on a paper,” Mal said, her voice going a bit lower. “Draw what you desire.”

Ariadne drew furiously, feeling the ghost of Mal’s instep under her fingers at the same time as her charcoal. Mal’s voice continued, giving suggestions, orders. “Think of how your toes curl when you come,” Mal said. “Think of holding my legs open, your thumbs pressed against the arches of my feet, as you lick me.”

Ariadne had to stop. Her heart was hammering, her lips parted. The paper in front of her swam in and out of her vision. She was fairly certain she’d drawn something at least somewhat related to Mal’s half-bare feet, but she couldn’t concentrate on it anymore. “I need,” she mumbled, stepping out from behind the easel. “I want…”

“I know,” Mal said. She didn’t move. “Come here.”

Ariadne stumbled forward, so overwhelmed she felt drunk. She fell to her knees in front of the little couch, Mal’s feel only inches from her. “Can I…?”

Mal smiled, nudging her toes closer to Ariadne’s open hand. “Of course.”

Later, Mal stood, gloriously naked, and examined Ariadne’s drawing. “You begin to see,” she said thoughtfully. “You draw the whole body, like you make love to the whole body. No one part is left out.”

Still on the couch, Ariadne’s head swam. She wanted to draw every part of Mal. She wanted to draw her face, when she’d smiled down. She wanted to draw the folds of her sex, as they looked from only inches away. She wanted to draw her as she was now, standing in the light, surrounded by her artwork, naked.

“Can I draw you again?” Ariadne was afraid of the answer.

Mal smiled. “ _Chérie_ ,” she said, “I have much more to teach you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please come visit me on [Tumblr](https://coffeewithconsequences.tumblr.com/) or read the rest of my fic here at [Archive of Our Own](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/works)!


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